


A Mechanical Fig

by oh_THAT_Keara



Category: A Clockwork Orange - All Media Types, Diriliş: Ertuğrul | Resurrection: Ertugrul (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 04:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_THAT_Keara/pseuds/oh_THAT_Keara
Summary: Ever wonder... what if the first episode ofDiriliş: Ertuğrul(akaResurrection: Ertugrulin the US andErtugrul: The Resurrectionin the UK) was written like Anthony Burgess'sA Clockwork Orange?Maybe not, but I make noappy polly loggies. As soon as "There was me (that is, Ertuğrul) and my three droogs (that is, Turgut, Doğan, and Bamsı)" sneaked into my head one day, it became inevitable. So relax and enjoy it.





	A Mechanical Fig

**Author's Note:**

> Did You Know? Among Turks, the word "fig" refers to both a fruit and a rude hand gesture.
> 
> Read it right here for **Nadsat Tooltips!** Don't know what a word means? Mouse over it and the standard English translation will pop up!  
>  _You kids today with your hypertext. You're spoiled._  
>  **Speaking of spoilers, there are some, but only for season 1, episode 1.**  
> 

* * *

_“O zaman ne olacak? Hah?”_

There was me (that is, Ertuğrul) and my three droogs (that is, Turgut, Doğan, and Bamsı, Bamsı being more than a little barmy), and we sat around in front of Wild Demir’s blacksmith stall making up our rassoodocks what to do with the day, a crisp autumnal _piç_ though sunny. I’d been helping Wild Demir hammer out some steel with a “Haydir Allah!” and a “Hakdir Allah!” and a horrorshow shoomny bang and clang, and when we took a breaky-wake old Wild gave me a shiny new infidel-sticker he must have made on the sly, like; I’d been helping at the forge a lot and never seen it before. It gleamed like a sliver-of-moon, straight as a raindrop’s track and sharp as a hunger pang. “There’s no sword other than Zulfiqar and no valiant but His Holiness Ali,” I pronounced, for the reason it was such a choodessny oroojy that if I was not very conspicuously humble, O my brothers, the old Sglaz, or _kem göz_ , would surely fall on my kraseevy young self. 

“What’s your comic-relief team up to?” Wild asked me, seeing my droogies a-saddling up our loshads. As we watched, Bamsı rummaged in his karmans and pulled out something that looked the sole of an old sabog. Then he nuked at it and took an ookoose out of it, so it must have been pishcha. 

Then again, knowing Bamsı, maybe not. 

“We’re going hunting,” I told Wild, feeling only a malenky bit _utanmış_ to leave off rabbiting right after he’d just gifted me that choodesny metch.

“Is there even any prey left out there in this famine?” Wild asked gloomily, for his appetite rivaled Bamsı’s but we’d all been on short rations for months and Winter. Was. Coming. 

That was a horrorshow bopross. Odd-knocko, the starving _obasi_ had gotten so oonilly with all those brookos growly-wowling night and day that my bweeny droogs and I were sorely plagued by what we Turkmen call _pantolonumuzdaki karıncalar_. Any excuse to ookadeety was zhelanny to us. 

“Hunting keeps the Alps fit, prey or no,” I pronounced. Our Alps, not actual mountains but almost as bolshy, were our ultra-violent tribal mileetsy, in which my droogs and I were rising zvezdas. There was almost always some kind of drat or bitva going in those times: Crusaders invading from the west, Mongols invading from the east, local townies with the nadmenny to call _us_ invaders, and even other Turkman nomad tribes when they happened to be golodny or ogranichny or skoochayooshky. But it was all horrorshow with us, because if meer should break out all we bweeny malchicks would all have to put away our kleenoks and start rabbiting at milking kozas or weaving _kilims_ all day. 

Nobody --- but nobody --- wanted _that_ , O my brothers. 

To get in a good hunting mood, my droogs and I peeted some “milk plus” --- that is, koza's moloko plus a generous dollop of the sweetest _pekmez_ this side of the Caspian Sea. As good and upright Mohammedan malchicks, we shun drugs and alcohol; such things are _haram_ to the likes of us. Instead, we rely on a massive sakar rush to sharpen us up for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one. (For those unfamiliar with the term, “dirty twenty-to-one” means a drat in which the douche-men outnumber us by only twenty to one; in other slovos, a lazy relaxing kind of a bitva for when we don’t feel like rabbiting too hard). 

The four of us were dressed in the height of fashion, as befit the most ultra-violent of the Kayi Alps; false modesty would have let the tribe down, like. We wore our luscious glory medium-long and like all red-red-krovvied Turkmen we sported bolshy big beardies, having last seen our chinnywins the night before we turned seven. Our bronny, made by highly skilled zheenas who loobied us, was reinforced _deri_ with extra protection built in for the kolenkas and the lokties and of course the yarbles. Even our nogas were well-outfitted, with flip horrorshow boots for kicking. 

We wore brown, as black was for Mongols and other grazhny prestoopnicks, whilst white was worn by a great many Christian ka-niggets and anyway was a bratchny to keep clean). And, to top off the whole snaryazh, each of us also had a shlem in the form of a pointy shlapa that kept our mozgs from being tolchocked clear out of our gullivers. “Every Alp has a pointy top,” as the warble goes. 

Our oroojies were also the height of fashion, O my brothers. I, of course, now had a beautiful new metch from Wild Demir, for which it only remained to be rinsed off with warm infidel krovvy. Turgut carried a huge topor with a Kayi maker’s mark on the head to let all his douche-men know exactly who was killing them. Doğan had a metch, but firing strelkas from his trusty luke was his real vesch. Bamsı was too bespokoiny to shive folk with only one blade, so he had two metches, one for each rooker, no waiting. And we each had a silny shield, which might _seem_ a purely defensive article until some veck catches the flying edge of one right across the glazzies and perenositsa. 

Three devotchkas walked toward us all together; coming from the _kilim_ works where they'd been rabbiting at the looms and dye-vats, most like. They were dressed in the height of fashion too: little round shalkas with lots of _gümüş_ in front and long _peçe_ down the back, and platties embroidered to a fare-thee-well. 

One was Aykiz, Wild Demir’s daughter and Turgut’s _nişanlı_ , for which we all secretly envied him even though the Old _Nikah_ would probably oobivat his freedom to spend time with us. Another was Selcan, my bolshy brat Gundogdu's zheena, for which we all openly _pitied_ him, ill-tempered slitty-eyed scoteena as she was. And the third was Gokce, Selcan’s sestra who expected to be _my_ zheena just because Selcan said she should. Gokce was nice enough to viddy and she didn’t creech or platch much (Selcan creeched and platched enough for both of them), but something about her just made me come over all poogly, as if my yarbles wanted to retreat back up from whence they came. 

In the corners of my glazzies I caught Turgut starting to go all metchtatelny upon viddying his looby Aykiz. Right then I ponied that he would want to govoreet with her, which would encourage Selcan and Gokce to govoreet with all of us too, and that would go on and on and on because ptitsas like to govoreet more than anything, O my brothers. We’d be loveted in that spot until we lost the shiny-bright \--- or until some klopotoon turned up with some oonilly sukhodroshka we abolutely had to stay home and do. That kind of veshch could razrez a veck’s whole day real skorry-like. 

So I yelped: "Out out out out!" like a doggie, clapped Turgut on the pletcho to turn him stableward, and started to itty, knowing the others would follow as they always did. 

"Where ‘out’?" shrilled Selcan, her too-sharp nose twitching with suspicion. 

"Oh, just to patrol around the lessa a bit," I said, so coolly that maslo would not have melted on my yazzick, "and make sure no douche-men lurk therein." And we hopped on our loshads and iddied off into the hills, thoughtfully taking a ziggity-zaggity route through the obasi whilst making a most bezoomny shoom. Life in the obasi gets very skoochny, so it bucks up the lewdies’ morale no end to hear their favorite kraseevy malchicks go galloping by, hooting and howling and hallooing and scattering skot and peshekhoddies left and right. But not all the peshekhoddies dodged this time. Stubbornly blocking our scarper was none other than Gundogdu, my big bratty, on whom our pee and em, the obasi’s _Bey_ and _Hanim_ , settled all their hopes for the tribe’s future. 

“You’re going hunting?" he horned most indignantly. "Are you kidding me? There’s a Headquarters meeting tomorrow. You should stay here and help us get ready.” 

Old “Dog Doo,” as I affectionately (and privately) called him, lived for meetings. It hadn’t been zdrovy for him. Barely eighteen, he was already losing his voloss (though Selcan probably pulled some out in her frequent burlits, and he no doubt thought it was his gulliver getting bigger from all his oomny thoughts). Heir or no heir, and hair or no hair, he had no fear of the old Sglaz from your humble narrator, as I envied him not one chasteechka. Vesting my small and like-minded banda of droogs was enough for me. 

“Not interesovatted, bolshy bratty,” I answered him. “Headquarters is your vesch. I’m more of a hunting sort of malchick.” 

As is his habit, Dog Doo rolled his glazzies and shook his gulliver. “Whatever in Bismillah you just said,” he warned me, “if you must go wandering off, get back here soon.” 

We were somewhere around Varışlı on the edge of the lessa when the sakar began to take hold. Such was our radosty that we continued smecking and horning as we rode, until Turgut said “Should we maybe go more quiet-like so the prey doesn’t get poogly?” And he was righty-right but it razdrazzed me that he, and not I, had said it. 

There hadn’t been much prey in the lessa for months anyway, it having been so sodding dry all summer. What deer and suchlike could be found were as toshchy and stringy as our own sheep and goats, but our skot had to be kept for the long hungry Winter that Was Coming. By and by we came across a malenky little gazelle that stared at the four of us with huge round glazzies. She was starved scrawny and generally the worse for wear. After all was said and done and shot and skinned and stewed she’d barely amount to two or three Bamsı-bites, but under the circus-dances she’d have to do. We jumped off our loshads and followed her on our nogas, waiting for a clear shot at her through the derevos. She slowed and hesitated. I nocked and loaded real skorry, but just as I drew my luke, she scarpered. I stayed on her fluffy little khvost; it would feel horrorshow to oobivat something to feed the tribe, even a malenky little thing like this. 

She slowed again, paused, nuked at the air. I stepped out from behind a derevo, smiling most triumphantly, and drew down on her again. Suddenly the creature turned to look straight at your humble narrator, as if she knew I was her Azrael. Those great bolshy soft sad eyes transfixed me, O my brothers, but only for an instant. I took aim, but then a sudden high-pitched creech of “Father! Father!” startled me. For half a stookserds I wondered if the gazelle had cried out those clearly human slovos, but when I looked back, she was gone. I had slooshied the creeching of a spoogy devotchka from somewhere out of sight. The hunt forgotten, I turned and ran toward the shoom, trusting my faithful droogies to catch up. 

It was round by a small stream that we came across about a dozen ka-niggets in full Templar kolchuga. They were holding a malenky raggedy devotchka down on the ground at palash-point. Their leader towered over her, smecking and fumbling with his belt. Since there was no sign of him having just finished a particularly bolshy mounch, your humble narrator could only conclude he intended a little of the old in-out, in-out with the creeching devotchka, despite her obvy-bob obby-jections. 

“Have some decency!” crarked an equally raggedy starry veck, presumably her father. All bound up in oozies as he was, though, he couldn’t put up much of a drat. Neither could the ka-niggets’ third plenny, a squeaker who, by his ominous murder-face, might have been ths devotchka's malenky brat. 

I and my Alp droogs, on the other hand, could and would put up a most definite drat. We don’t looby having bandas of infidel ka-niggets goolying round our lessa. We particularly nenaviddy bolshy moodges who like to bully starry vecks and squeakers. But, most of all, we won’t terpet any grazhny bratchnies forcing the old in-out, in-out on innocent molodoy ptitsas and thinking they can keep breathing our fresh Anatolian air. 

The gazelle I was hunting had scarpered, and all the shoom must have rousted everything else for miles. Odd-knocko, it still looked like I’d get to oobivat something today. These nadmenny Crusaders could govoreet the sun down about decency but wouldn’t recognize it if it kebabbed them through the throat. So that’s exactly what my first strelka did to the closest ka-nigget. 

At that, the rest of the ka-niggets wheeled round and out came their palashes. I kebabbed a second one with another strelka, then rushed to meet them with my metch drawn and a gromky horn of “Ya Allah!” With a double stroke from both my metch and its empty nozhny, I felled the third and turned to meet the fourth. Just then Turgut charged out of the woods with a wordless rev and hacked another one off at the kolenkas with his bolshy great topor. At the same time, Doğan and Bamsı jumped into the bitva with nogas kicking. The infidel ka-niggets were turning this way and that in utter confusion, O my brothers, as if trying to choose their personal Azrael from among us. 

The starry veck, ignoring the infidel strelka in his bedro, snatched up a dropped palash and howled _”Intikam!”_ This made the head ka-nigget forget all about us Alps and turn around to attack his upstart plenny. The malenky ptitsa, who had been crouched down tending her father’s rana, barely rolled out of the way in time to avoid getting shived or tolchocked by these two ganevny moodges, who clearly had a major neddo between them. 

Meanwhile, Bamsı and his twin metches and his signature “X marks the throat” move dispatched one of the remaining disposable douche-men. Doğan put his sabog square into another one’s grood and krakhed him. The starry veck caught a shive across the brooko and fell back. The devotchka creeched “Father!” again and ran to him, the squeaker at her heels. They frantically tried to sobirat their fallen father out of the bitva while I struck one ka-nigget after another with my nozh and metch. 

Unlike a lot of Crusaders we’d dratted with, these were no lowly robbs and brodyags who’d joined up in for regular pishcha, dorogoy crasting, and a few krovvy-plesking smecks. They were trained, organized professional chassos. They didn’t krakh easily and when they did, they didn’t stay down. Between shives and kebabs and chippychops we gave them sabogs and kolenkas and elbows and rookers and shield-edges and whatever was handy. One came in on a loshad only to be dismounted by a chippychop square in the litso. Another tried to scarper, perhaps to fetch more of his droogs, but Turgut brosatted his topor \--- a topor most vecks could barely lift --- and got him between the pletcho blades ten loshad-lengths away. 

By and by we viddied that only the ka-niggets’ leader still stood. But as we closed in on him, another mounted douche-man came galloping to his commander's aid. and Bamsı got right next to him and brooko-razrezzed him so hard the loshad fell down with him. 

Wanting to duel the leader all on my oddy knocky, I waved my droogies away. He must have felt likewise, for I barely had time to sopet (on account of all the derevos setting off my ally-lergies) before he lunged at me. At first we traded tolchocks and parirovonnies, none causing any bolshy vred. He kicked me hard in the brooko, but I take harder kicks jostling with my bratties for zavtrack every morning. I was getting skoochayooshky with this game. 

I stepped back and kebabbed my metch into the ground between us, fixing him with a defiant Sglaz. With this choodessny dramatic gesture (though Deli Demir keeps telling me it’s baddiwad for the kleenok), I invited the head ka-nigget to drat rooker-to-rooker, up close and personal-like. Instead he held onto his big palash like the troose he was and razrezzed at me this way and that. I ducked and dodged toward him until I got in too close for him to hit with anypart of his palash except the looka. Then I picked him up bodily, kolchuga and all, and threw him down on his back like a boretz in the ring. He got up, finally abandoning his palash and drawing a long pointy nozh. Raising it high overhead, he ran at me preparing for a downward stab so obvy-bob that the angels watching from _El Jannah_ heaven saw it coming. Fashed? Or desperate. I got behind his lokty and forced it so straight his pletcho popped. Then I crasted his nozh and razrezzed his throat with it. 

When he fell face-down to finish snuffing it, I went to sobirat my fine new metch, which had done me the most remarkable service. To honor it I used my fallen douche-man’s snowy white cloak to wipe off the blood and dirt until the kleenok shone like a sliver-of-moon once again. Then I nozhnied it with thanks to Allah and Ali and went to viddy the starry veck, the devotchka, and the squeaker. 

When I sent Turgut to sobirat some dubovvy leaves to stop the krovvy,the devotchka locked glazzies with me across her father’s razrezzed brooko. It was then I saw that she wasn't as terribly molodoy as I thought. She only seemed so because she was toshchy from want of pishcha as well as naturally malenky. Her bolshy round poogly glazzies in her small, toshchy litso were so like those of my scarpered gazelle that my serds forgot to stook for a moment. 

“Time to iddy away from here skorry-like,” I announced once we finished bintovatting her father's numerous ranas. 

“You go,” she said. “We can take care of ourselves.” 

“It’s getting cherny,” I explained with all the terpenny Allah granted me right then. “Every kheeshnick in this lessa is very golodny and you’re sitting in the middle of their _sofra_. They’ll smell all this red-red krovvy for miles. We all have to ookadeety now if we want to keep breathing this sweet Anatolian air, _kızkardeşim_ ”. 

At this, Doğan and Bamsı went to fetch the horses, but the devotchka still wouldn’t itty. “We owe you a life and one day we’ll pay you back,” she said dismissively. “Tell us your name.” 

“Suleyman Shah’s son, Ertuğrul. From Kayi tribe,” I growly-wowled, feeling more than a little razdrazzed at the ptitsa’s ingratitude after my droogies and I risked our lives and ruined our afternoon. Ruined the coming nochy too: How much spatchka would Allah grant me after I left these lewdies out here in amid such bolshy oogroza? Having had more than enough of this cal, I vistavatted and said, “As you wish. Allah be with you, and _iyi şans_.” 

And then I turned and ookadeetied (although I must say not too skorry, just in case they changed their rassoodocks). “Wait,” piped up the squeaker. “We should go with them.” 

Thanks be to Allah, one of them had a malenky bit of mozg in his gulliver. We slowed down even more. 

“... Is your tribe far?” the devotchka finally oostupatted. 

My three droogs and I stopped and slowly turned around.

**Author's Note:**

> References in addition to _Diriliş: Ertuğrul Season 1, Episode 1_ and _A Clockwork Orange_ :  
>  _Diriliş: Ertuğrul_ 71.Bolum (Episode 71 as originally released, in Season 3)  
>  _Game of Thrones_ TV show by David Benoff and E.D. Weiss  
>  _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ book by Hunter S. Thompson  
>  _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_ movie by Chris Matheson and Ed Solomon
> 
>  **Why? Why? Why?**  
>  At first glance, the main characters of _Diriliş: Ertuğrul_ and _A Clockwork Orange_ are polar opposites. Ertuğrul is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent -- a model Alp Scout and utterly credible future Ghazi -- while Little Alex is a psychopathic, sadistic, eventually murderous bully whose father really should have invested in a better condom.  
> Yet at the pivotal age of fifteen, when we first meet them, the two share some unexpected common ground.  
> 
> 
>   * Both are proud of their physical fighting skills and jump at any chance to use them.  
> 
>   * Both live in societies threatened by bigger problems, allowing them more scope for violent adventures than they might have otherwise.  
> 
>   * Both take similar pride in their fashion sense, confident that there will always be someone to wash out the bloodstains or, failing that, provide new clothes.  
> 
>   * Each has three inseparable friends and considers himself their undisputed leader.  
> 
>   * Neither is anxious to shoulder adult responsibilities.  
> 
>   * Neither is able to ignore damsels and distress, although the results differ widely.  
> 
>   * And, perhaps most telling of all, both catastrophically disrupt their families and communities: Alex just for fun, and Ertuğrul for the sake of the Difficult Good that all the pious praise in principle but that most, in their heart of hearts, would rather admire from a safe distance.
>   
>  



End file.
